


it doesn't work, these erasures, this constant refolding

by crookedspoon



Series: Breaking out the Party Hats [2]
Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Boners, Dirty Talk, How Do I Tag, Joseph Kavinsky is His Own Warning, M/M, POV Joseph Kavinsky, Possibly Unrequited Love, Touching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-10
Updated: 2017-12-10
Packaged: 2019-02-13 04:35:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12976041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crookedspoon/pseuds/crookedspoon
Summary: During the weekend he spends teaching Lynch how to dream, Kavinsky gathers up his courage to reach out and touch a sleeping Lynch softly. Things don't go well.





	it doesn't work, these erasures, this constant refolding

**Author's Note:**

  * For [giuggiulu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/giuggiulu/gifts).



> Happy birthday, Giù! I feel like I have to apologise first. I really wanted to write the first chapter of the roadtrip au in your honour, but I was too stressed to give it my full attention. Instead, this. Hope you had a splendid day! :D
> 
> This was born out of my disbelief that Ronan and Kavinsky spent so much sexually charged time with one another (topless even!) and didn't so much as kiss. What even. (Okay, Kavinsky was a frightened little thing.) It was supposed to be something soft and perhaps a little achey... and then it became something else. Ahem. I have no excuse.
> 
> Many thanks to Neurotoxia for the speedy beta!

Objectively, this is a bad idea. Much to his own disadvantage (but overall popularity in certain circles), Kavinsky's more the type to favor "bad" over "objectively" and see where it lands him – impulse is his way of life.

Impulse and calculation.

Never say the two don't go well together, because calculation sets the path and impulse adds momentum. Both have gotten him right here, reaping the fruits of about half a year's worth of labor. That's the kind of goal-oriented person Kavinsky is. Aim high, then higher. Reach for the stars. Don't lower your sights. Take shortcuts where available, but attain the unattainable.

And attain it he did.

Which is exactly why this is such a terrible idea.

Not that this thought was at the forefront of his mind, but it must have been somewhere in the air, because his body doesn't listen to him quite as well as it should. He blames it on his terrible high, one of those that leave him frayed instead of fine. Erratic, not ecstatic. 

He tries to think up more alliterative word pairs to stave off the inevitable but comes up short. 

He's probably dissociating. That's why his control over his extremities is questionable.

It might be just a dream after all, this whole weekend, even though he's made a point of pinching himself now and again to distinguish between waking and dreaming.

They've been sliding in and out of these states until nothing felt real anymore except what's right in front of them, like the dream object they were committing to memory or recreating from memory or simply imagining into being via a detour through the dream. It all weaves seamlessly into one another even though it's consciousness interrupted. And if he takes in the world around him in bursts of air, or in little sips, snapshot impressions that combine to a grand unified whole, how can he know that what went on before was real or imagined?

Thinking about this is like looking at a film reel in stop motion. Played quickly enough it tells a story, but taken apart, the jerky movements become apparent and jolt the viewer out of the illusion they're trying to create.

This is how he looks at this scene in front of him: like a photo taken out of its frame, contextless but for the story he wants it to tell, even though he still cannot fathom what kind of story that might be.

Or rather, he can. That's the thing. He'd just rather avoid thinking about the implications of such a story.

So he backs up. Takes in what he sees, past and future irrelevant; the only thing that matters is the now.

Which is this: Lynch is lying next to him in the grass, back turned to the world, head pillowed by Kavinsky's forearm, drained from dreaming non-stop. The setting is bathed in darkness except for the faint blue glow of his car's dashboard lights that offer just enough illumination to outline the edges of their bodies.

Also this: Kavinsky's fingers – the ones he can still feel – are hovering over Lynch's naked shoulder, as if a force field were repelling them. It may be a force field called hesitation, although Kavinsky would never think of himself as anything less than someone who jumps into a situation with both feet.

Second thoughts are for losers.

So his fingers hone in. They ghost over the fur-like bristles of Lynch's hair. They brush the shell of Lynch's ear. He's playing with fire, of course, it's his favorite activity to alleviate the boredom of existence. He doesn't let sleeping dogs lie so much as prod them awake with a stick to see how long it'll take for them to bite. 

Though what exactly he is expecting to happen if instead of prodding them, he's caressing them awake, he can't say. It's not a softer bite, that's for sure.

When Lynch suddenly inhales deeply as if new life had been breathed into him, Kavinsky's pulse kicks in with the force of a head-on collision. It jolts through him like i does during his weirder highs, which should probably be sign enough, but it doesn't stop him running his tingling fingertips along Lynch's ear.

Lynch brushes his hand away as if swatting at a fly. Kavinsky's hand keeps going, as if propelled by a power outside his conscious control, feeling out the rough bark of scabs covering his knuckles, the soft back of his hand, the tangle of leather bands encircling his wrist. Not for the first time he wonders if they're his, but the copies are too perfect to tell.

Throughout this, he can feel Lynch's eyes on him, asking "The fuck are you doing?" even if his mouth can't say it yet.

That is the question. The fuck indeed.

He's not doing anything much, but an ache is gripping his chest that's so severe as if Lynch were an actual fire Kavinsky was holding his hand into.

At least he's not bored.

Quite the opposite. He's highly engaged, aware of only this moment and none leading up to it.

There's danger in that disregard. Stupidity too, perhaps, but Kavinsky has never been accused of being too smart for his own good, even though he is. Else his head wouldn't be working overtime, trying to crowd his consciousness with all the different ways this can go to shit. He ignores them as he always does.

He needs a line.

Just when he comes to that conclusion, after what seems like an eternity, Lynch curls his hand away from Kavinsky's touch. The gesture is not inflected with any clear sort of intent other than wanting to see where this is headed.

Kavinsky doesn't have a roadmap, but the journey being as important as the destination and all that, he doesn't need one. The better to get lost that way.

He splays his fingers against Lynch's neck, feeling his own pulse mirrored in the rapid drumming against his fingertips. He exhales shakily and runs his thumb along Lynch's jawline. 

The ache in his chest is radiating outward, capturing new territories, and it's corseting his throat so tight he can barely trust himself to speak.

The muscles in Lynch's jaw clench when Kavinsky's thumb brushes his bottom lip, and a sharp jab travels along that network of aching nerves. He pushes it down – the jab, the bottom lip, and Lynch's chin with it. There's some resistance, as if his face had rusted shut in a vein similar to Kavinsky's, but he lets it happen. He lets Kavinsky tap his thumb against his teeth, lets him trace their ridge from canine to canine, even lets Kavinsky press further until the slick heat of Lynch's tongue practically burns his skin.

Kavinsky sucks in a sharp breath, because Jesus, he'd never expected to get this far without Lynch fighting back. Which is why he's also starting to get pissed. He'd expected Lynch to punch him in face, to bite the intruding digit, to at least stall his hand from venturing on. Anything but this enraging passivity.

He's letting Kavinsky dictate everything, and while Kavinsky would normally enjoy this much leeway, he's so fucking _uncertain_ now. Does Lynch want this? Is he trying to decide if he wants this? Is he waiting for Kavinsky to make a move so unmistakable that shooting him down will be extra satisfying for him? Is he even aware this is happening? And if he is, does he stay in the present? Or does he imagine it's Dick fucking Gansey touching him?

Fuck. Kavinsky is hot and jittery and generally fucking inconvenienced by the annoying blades of grass poking his skin, but that's nothing compared to the discomfort not knowing what's what puts him through. He wishes Lynch would come clean and give him a fucking indication of where he's at in this. Kavinsky hates feeling exposed and _he's_ not the one with a goddamn thumb in his mouth.

He _really_ needs a line now.

"Jesus, man. How fucking drunk are you?" His words are barely above a whisper, and with his blood pounding in his ears he can't be sure if he actually said any of them, so he's not surprised when there's no answer.

Maybe Lynch is just out of it. Fucking asshole, making him sweat through an agonizing amount of unwelcome emotions, and not even staying awake long enough to _do_ anything about it.

"Did you pass out again?" he asks and jostles Lynch's head from side to side, just to make sure he's not braindead or to wake him up in case he did pass out again. The hot breath ghosting across his skin at least lets him know he's still alive. So he doesn't have to go about digging any graves yet.

But shit fuck goddamn, as much as he craves Lynch's biting remarks, seeing him so pliable is doing unspeakable things to Kavinsky. At least he has the decency to almost feel guilty about the amount of indecent suggestions his head is peppering him with. 

Lynch's teeth close around Kavinsky's thumb this time and he shakes his head slowly, as if trying not to let it slip from his mouth. Kavinsky's eyelids flutter and then Lynch swallows and his tongue _undulates_ against Kavinsky's thumb and Kavinsky's world blanks for a moment because that liquid hot sensation goes straight to his dick, and he has to pull out before he's going to come in his pants with a pathetic whimper.

He is hard. Fuck, he really is. Until now, the sick clenching ache in his body has been more persistent than his dick rubbing uncomfortably against the inside of his jeans. Now, he can't ignore it any longer.

He concentrates on tapping Lynch's lips to take his mind off of it, and smears saliva across his cheek. Lynch breathes a sigh and rolls his face back toward the crook of Kavinsky's elbow.

It's difficult to will his desire away when the cooling night air trails kisses over his sweating skin. He's restless and raw and overheated, and decides to hell with it. He's come this far.

He must have taken too long to decide, however. Just when he places his hand on Lynch's shoulder does he notice that the other boy's body has softened. That he's passed out for real. 

Kavinsky presses his forehead against the back of his hand and lets bitter laughter rock his frame. So close, he thinks. He's not going to survive this. His heart has nearly given out twice already.

He really should have taken that line.

That wouldn't have improved his chances of heart failure, but at least he'd be feeling better.

It's not too late. He can still do one... Except, he can't. All he has on him are his dream pills, and he doesn't feel like getting up and rifling through his car. He'd have to throw Lynch off his arm for one thing, and he's not sure he's ready to deal with him just yet. So he swallows one pill dry, gagging on its way down, and intending to bring back the biggest mountain of the purest, most fail-safe, customer-satisfaction-guaranteed white powder imaginable.

That's a goal he can work with.

* * *

When he falls into the dream, Lynch is already there, staring at the distance through the dark, claw-like branches. 

Kavinsky curses. Fucking chest pain is at it again. He shouldn't be able to feel anything here, it's just a space inside his head. Or is it?

Startled, Lynch spins around, a lot more nimble than Kavinsky has experienced him in a while. So, fucked up in the real world does not equal fucked up in the dream, got it. Kavinsky couldn't have come to that conclusion from experience, since he doesn't know what it's like not to be fucked up. It's his status quo.

"So you're here, too," Kavinsky says by way of greeting. He wonders if this is actually Lynch. Or dream-body Lynch. Or whatever. Or if it's just the Lynch inside his head. He's never really thought about how this dreaming shit works. Never had to, since he doesn't know anyone else who's able to do what they can do.

"What are you doing here?" Lynch asks. He appears to not have expected another visitor.

"Same shit you are, dumbfuck. Thieving."

"In _my_ dream, asshole."

Kavinsky shrugs. "Looks like your Wal-Mart is my Wal-Mart. Why do you care? It's big enough for the both of us."

Instead of answering, Lynch directs his permanent scowl at him, uncommunicative as ever. In light of the humiliation he's just been through in the waking world, Kavinsky does not take too kindly to it. It's like being relegated to villain status again, as if none of what's happened had actually registered with Lynch.

Kavinsky is not about to let that fly.

"Now," he says and crowds into Lynch's personal space. "Want to continue where we left off or want to start over?"

"What?" Lynch asks, having the audacity to look confused, and fury is beginning to sink its claws into Kavinsky.

"I'll give you a hint," he says with a bit more venom than he intended, but he's had it with Lynch making a fool of him.

Nothing feels real anymore when Kavinsky kisses him. Or maybe everything feels real for the first time. It's hard to tell. Is is even really happening when the space it's happening in is not real? When it's just a dream? When they're somehow both here and aware it's a dream?

Lynch is frozen for a full heartbeat, maybe two. Perhaps he's wondering the same things. Then he pushes Kavinsky away.

"The fuck are you doing?" he asks and wipes his mouth.

"That's not how you reacted earlier," Kavinsky says, dangerously cool.

"What are you even on about?"

"Stop bullshitting me, you coward."

"You're the one who's bullshitting."

Kavinsky stops and stares. If that's really what he believes, he either really doesn't remember or this is just one elaborate dream he's having, trying to convince him that the Lynch in front of him is the real deal, the same Lynch who's sleeping in the real world.

Both of these options are unacceptable.

On second thought, he can have fun with that. He's earned that much at least.

Placing a hand flat on Lynch's chest, he shoves him back into the tree.

"You're a coward, Lynch." He sneers, but it's hard to keep up. Already he feels the rush of a high surging through him. "You just don't want to admit how much you loved begging me for it. How you enjoyed sucking me off while I abused your face. God, you looked so good on your knees. I couldn't believe what a talented tongue you have. Did Dick teach you that?"

The beginning of Kavinsky's narration might have Lynch blushing to listen to it, but the second Dick's name drops, he explodes. So predictable.

With a growl, he pushes Kavinsky to the ground. His ass lands heavy on thick roots that he swears just broke out of the ground to hurt him. He actually does feel a little pain. He'll have to make sure not to concentrate on it when he wakes, otherwise he might be waking up to bruises on his ass. Wouldn't that be hilarious?

"There's nothing to be ashamed of," Kavinsky continues, fake-sweetly, as he picks himself up and dusts himself off. Now that he's headed in this direction, he can't stop running his mouth. "In fact, I'd probably respect you a little if you admitted to it. Do you wear a collar for him? Is that the kind of kinky shit you two are up to? I bet he walks you on a leash when you are alone."

"Shut up." 

Kavinsky is closing in again and for some reason, Lynch is shrinking back. "Praises you when you're a good dog, spanks you when you're bad dog."

"Fuck you."

"'Heel.'"

Lynch's eyes are shut tightly, as if squeezing them together would make him able to drown out the filth Kavinsky is spewing.

"'Sit.'" 

"Stop talking." The forest around them seems to be growing louder as if to drown out Kavinsky's words.

"'Roll over.'"

Lynch's fingers dig hard into Kavinsky's biceps to keep him at a distance, but Kavinsky still manages to breathe hot against his neck.

"'Take it.'"

The back of Lynch's head smacks against the trunk when Kavinsky bucks his hips against him. From the feel of it, he's just as hard as Kavinsky. 

"Is he a stern master? Is he going to punish you for fooling around with someone else? That why you pretend you can't remember? I bet you love to be punished, though." It hurts him to say these things, but he barrels on, pitching his voice higher. "'Hurt me, Gansey. Yes. Harder. I swear I'll be better next time. I'll be so good for you. I want master to be proud.'"

Lynch rolls his eyes upward, teeth bared, as if imploring whatever higher power there is to make Kavinsky stop.

And it listens.

Just then, a branch cracks across Kavinsky's face and something strong and flexible winds around his throat, cutting of his air supply and thereby his words.

Lynch stares dumbly, as wide-eyed as he gets, and Kavinsky thinks this may not be all his doing. Then, Lynch's head whips to the side.

"Leave. Now," he urges and a moment later he's just... gone. As if he'd never been there in the first place.

Another moment later, Kavinsky sees what had him so up in arms. A horde of those ugly fuckers he'd killed last night are swarming the place, beak mouths screeching and needle claws extended.

This could hurt. A lot.

He tries to clear his mind and wake up before they reach him, but he's not fast enough. Fire erupts across the skin of his back and his arms. So much for not concentrating on the pain. He'll leave with way more than just bruises on his ass.

Their claws also sever the rope around his neck and when he stumbles forward, he wakes, as if that was the last strand tethering him to the dream.

* * *

He's jostled awake, and with the return of his awareness, he notices that even his cheeks are stinging. Hasn't he suffered enough? He feels a bit like laundry being aired and beaten.

Out of instinct, he touches his sore face and says, "You must like me a lot if you're this desperate to see me wake up again."

"I told you to leave," Lynch spits, but there's relief in the way he releases Kavinsky and sits back.

"I'm not afraid of your nightmare creatures, Lynch. Should see mine." Kavinsky shrugs, but it turns out to be a bad idea. It pulls on the fine cuts littering his skin.

"Look at you, bleeding from every pore like a fucking noob."

"You're one to talk," Kavinsky snorts and flicks one of Lynch's wrists.

Which immediately seems to turn his mood sour, because he clamps up and looks away. Way to go to lighten the mood. Though after nearly getting killed just now, he can't be expected to be delicate and pick up on social cues.

"There's a first aid kit in my car," Kavinsky tries again.

"Which of them?" Lynch asks and Kavinsky thinks he can hear a smirk. That's better.

"Pick one."

When Lynch gets up to pop the trunk of the Mitsu in front of them and rummage through its contents, what he'd said earlier repeats itself in Kavinsky's head.

The first words out of Lynch's mouth referred to what he'd said in the dream, telling Kavinsky to leave. So it was really Lynch there and not a fabrication created by Kavinsky's brain.

If his cheeks weren't already heated from the sting in them, he suspects they'd be reddening now as Kavinsky tries _not_ to think about the things he said and did to Lynch.

He feels the same sick ache gnawing through him as he had earlier. How is he going to talk himself out of this one?

With a sudden spark of annoyance, he realizes he never even got what he went to sleep for in the first place.

"When you're done there," he says to Lynch, "check my glove compartment. There must be a bag of coke in there."

"Get it yourself, fuckwit."

"And aggravate all these cuts? Pass." Not to mention that he won't be able to stand for a while, since his legs have turned to jelly. It's all he can do to stay seated upright.

"Cry to mommy about it."

Kavinsky makes a face that Lynch can't see, so he makes sure he can at least hear it. "She'd dismantle the whole car in the hopes of finding even half a bag. And then she'd make off with it herself." 

"In her case, I'd probably love the drugs more than you, too."

"Lynch, did you just confess to me?"

"The fuck?" Lynch punctuates his question by slamming the trunk shut. He's also found a flashlight that he's pointing directly into Kavinsky's face.

"No need to be shy and go back on your words now, sweetheart. I've always known you had a thing for me. I mean, who doesn't? I'm awesome."

Before Kavinsky can babble any more bullshit, Lynch empties a bottle of water over his head.

"My hand slipped," he deadpans.

"You just can't handle the truth," Kavinsky says after wiping the water from his face and running a hand through his ruined hair to sort out some of the damage.

Lynch says nothing, just opens another bottle. This time, he pours it over the gashes on Kavinsky's back. Kavinsky cleans the few cuts on his chest.

"Listen, about earlier," he says as Lynch dabs his back dry. "I didn't mean what I said."

"What _did_ you say?" Lynch pats a little harder than strictly necessary. 

"You _serious?"_

"Probably wasn't listening."

"You very much definitely were." Even though he didn't want to hear any of it.

"Sounds fake."

Kavinsky groans.

What the fuck is it with Lynch not remembering – or pretending not to remember – shit today? This is driving Kavinsky up a wall. It should relieve him if Lynch truly had no memory of Kavinsky kissing him (or grinding against him, for that matter), but it doesn't. It frustrates him more. How often does he have to gather up the courage to let Lynch know he fucking wants him? Fuck, he doesn't want to think about it. He can't do this anymore.

A sudden sting startles him out of his thoughts. As Lynch continues applying ointment to his wounds, Kavinsky becomes embarrassingly aware of the growing bulge in his jeans. If he concentrates enough, he can almost feel the outline of Lynch's hard-on against it.

He can't imagine Lynch to not remember all the shit he said. He'd been too into it. It's more likely he doesn't _want_ to remember, or talk about it. Which, in effect, makes it as though none of it ever happened, if neither of them wants to acknowledge it. And who is going to prove the other wrong? _That thing I did to you while we were in our dream place, yeah, I wanna do that again_ is not going to cut it.

He knows that what happened was real. His wounds attest to that. And Lynch can't deny _those._

Stop motion pictures, then. Snapshot taken out of context. Just as Kavinsky was bullshitting earlier about a thing that didn't happen, Lynch is now bullshitting about a thing that did. 

Which begs the question: does Lynch believe he'd _actually_ blown Kavinsky or does he suspect the bluff? If he does, and if he refuses to acknowledge it, does that mean he wants to go back to a time _before_ he'd blown Kavinsky, as he thinks he did? Does he want to undo a thing that never happened?

Wow, that shit is making his head spin.

He's exhausted, both physically and mentally. He doesn't think he could handle finding out what Lynch really feels about him in on top of it all. He's had enough of an emotional rollercoaster for one day. Perhaps not his worst to date, but he doesn't want to push his luck. 

For now, it's enough to know that, despite everything, Lynch didn't want him to die. That he'd patch him up without having to be bullied into it. That he's willing to ignore how he mouthed off to give him another chance.

That's plenty. 

And probably more than Kavinsky deserves.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Litany in Which Certain Things are Crossed Out" by Richard Siken.
> 
> Tumblr post for reblogging convenience can be found [here](https://crookedspoonfic.tumblr.com/post/168405789545/these-erasures-trc-rovinsky-t). If there's any other pairings/tropes/kinks/ideas you wanna see, let me know! I'm also @crookedteaspoon on tumblr and twitter.


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